


for the walls of my tower they come crumbling down

by maisiedaisy



Series: in which prokopenko is kavinsky's downfall [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, but dont, dont hate, enjoy, heeeeeereeee weeeeeeeee go, i attempted smut guys, it's embarrassing, k stops being stupid in this one, kind of, like he's so perfect and pure and i love him?????????, much love for proko, my grammar and punctuation is atrocious when it comes to tags, okay I'm rambling, proko and k are soulmates shut up, why was there barely in proko in the raven cycle books?????, you might hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9794699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maisiedaisy/pseuds/maisiedaisy
Summary: Proko can’t breathe because holy shit he’s holding Kavinsky’s heart in his hands. The broken, tormented boy just gave Proko a glimpse of his soul, raw and unfinished around the edges, a little frayed from dreaming and drugs, but it was still beautiful.~~~Joseph Kavinsky is capable of being unmade and Prokopenko is capable of doing it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Aight yeah so here's the last one. It's honestly not my favorite, I feel like it's rushed but I'ma just go with is for now. I'll fix it up later when I'm done being lazy. Kavinsky might be ooc but it's hard to write him all soft and loving without doing that.

“You stupid fucking piece of shit,” is the first thing Kavinsky hears when he comes to. There must be a thousand fire ants crawling through his skull because his head is buzzing and aching in an itchy sort of burn. “What the fuck?” He groans. Except it comes out as a choke and a gurgle because there are tubes feeding into his mouth. It takes him half a moment to realize he’s in a hospital room, it takes him another half to realize the person who spoke to him is Jiang. 

“Where’s Proko?” He mumbled around the tubes, his throat constricting tightly and the urge to gag taking over. Jiang just shoots him a look that clearly says, ‘I have no idea what you’re fucking saying’. K wants to pull the instruments from his mouth but his arms feel like the entire solar system’s gravity was placed inside of his body and he’s tied to the bed. It takes half a second for him to black-out once again. 

 

_ … _

  
  


“You gonna go visit him?” Jiang is thumbing the joint from Proko’s thin finger, a smirk carelessly tossed on his face. 

Proko exhales heavily, the smoke drifting up to the sky, blending in with the gray overcast. “No.”   
“He asks about you. Every time he wakes up. I think you should throw him a bone and go see him.”

(proko’s heart is still heavy with hurt and so he shakes his head and plucks the roll of dope from the other boy’s hand)

 

_ … _

 

Jiang doesn’t have to tell K that Proko’s not coming, he figures it out for himself. Part of him is a tundra frozen over with anger but another, softer side of him understands. “Tell him to wait for me.” K whispers to Jiang, his throat still raw (if jiang can see that k’s about to cry, he doesn’t say anything).

 

_ … _

 

Kavinsky is released from the hospital a few days later and Proko locks himself into his room (a room he hasn’t slept in since he and kavinsky began whatever the fuck was between them). It’s bare and cold and reminds him a little bit of Kavinsky. 

Outside, he hears the familiar raucous sound of laughter as the boys arrive home with Kavinsky. Proko peeks through the curtains covering his window and catches his breath at the sight of K. Kavinsky looks extremely good for someone who had just been in the hospital for an overdose. Proko snorts derisively as he spots the thin white telltale curl of a homemade joint, grasped loosely between tan fingers.Kavinsky is grinning, but the expression is as empty as the wall’s in Proko’s room. He looks tired but he’s putting on a face for the boys, something Proko is so fucking used to that he can spot the facade from a mile away. Proko closes the curtains and collapses on his bed with a sigh and prays that the others don’t tell k that proko is back (he’s only slightly terrified of confronting k).

  
  


_ … _

 

“Proko’s back, man. He’s in his room.” Swan tells him as he curls his fingers tenderly through Skov’s bubblegum pink hair (k is only used to the pastel blue hair so the pink is a shock to him). Jiang slaps his hand across the back of Swan’s neck, “Dude!” He says.  _ Kavinsky’s not supposed to know _ . Is what he doesn’t say. K nods half-heartedly, breathing in a quick fix of dope, ignoring the condescending looks he receives from the others. “That’s cool.” Kavinsky says lamely, the wit switch in his brain has been turned off ever since he woke from his overdose. The big, familiar mansion Kavinsky had always felt familiar in, now feels like an empty promise of normal. Kavinsky sees things he hadn’t before―the ceiling is stained and lonely, the walls are an offset white and numb-looking. Kavinsky feels empty and even the familiar, comforting sounds of Jiang and Skov’s bickering and the music of Mario Kart isn’t enough to fill the drained places in him. “I need some air.” He tells the others as he grabs a pack of Marlboro and heads towards the door (really he just needs proko but knows the last thing proko wants is him). 

 

_ … _

 

Prokopenko finds himself watching Kavinsky more so than usual. The longing ache he thought was gone suddenly grows back like ivy vines, twisting and gnarling over the soft spot in his ribcage. Kavinsky puts back up his mask, it’s more deliberate and exaggerated now; his smiles are too feral to be anything but grimaces and the quick way he runs his hands through his hair does not share the same air of indifference as before. He sees now more than ever, how fucking sad being Joseph Kavinsky is. It almost makes him want to let K back into the cavity dwelling in his empty chest (almost). 

 

_ … _

 

It’s been three weeks and the only time Kavinsky sees Proko is in the mornings when he’s sleep-soft and too bleary-eyed to remember he’s avoiding K. 

Swan tells him that he should talk to Proko and K tells him he should mind his own fucking business (but he’s too slow to say so and too gentle with the flick of his tongue around fuck so swan smiles and pats his back).

It’s been three fucking weeks and K has thought of nothing but fucking Prokopenko and so he agrees that maybe now he should say something. 

 

_ … _

 

_ He’s coming towards him _ . It’s friday night and the house is drowning in mistakes. There’s a foursome going on in Jiang’s room (jiang is nowhere to be seen and if he were here he’d probably be in the middle of the orgy) and pills and booze have replaced the soft haze of weed. Kavinsky in all his glory his walking towards Proko, the sea of party-goers parting around him like a flesh wound. Kavinsky is wearing a bruise on his cheek like a crown and he’s got a beer in his hand but his eyes are clear and sober. Proko pushes away from the wall, stretches himself through the grinding and tries to make a run for it but Kavinsky’s hand is gripping his shoulder before he can make it very far. He pulls Proko to him, his jaw a rough and sensual slide against Proko’s soft, boyish cheek. “We need to talk.” It’s the most calm Proko has ever heard him and he feels jittery with nervousness. 

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Proko is a biting remark against Kavinsky’s civility and K looks unsure. He builds himself up with that thought.  _ He  _ is the one in control this time. 

Someone bumps into K, sends him thumping against Proko and K whirls around, fist gripping the neck of the bottle threateningly. Proko recognizes the moment K is about to smash it against the other boy’s head, watches the flex of K’s hand as he calms himself down and turns back to Proko. 

Proko tries to hide his disbelief because  _ holy shit K held himself back from a fight. K took the higher road. _ It’s because of this that Proko lets Kavinsky pull him into his room and shut the door. 

 

_ … _

 

Proko is staring at him with barely concealed bemusement. K runs a hand through his hair, once, twice and takes a deep breath. “Uhm.” The speech K had rehearsed beforehand is nothing more than a pipe dream in his head now, washed away by the guarded look in Proko’s eyes, as if the other boy only expects an emotional scar from this conversation.    
“How’s it going?”   
Proko reacts with severely arching eyebrows and a choked swear, “How’s it going?  _ How’s it fucking going?  _ Good  _ Lord,  _ Kavinsky. You said you wanted to talk, which I assumed you meant apologize and you come to me with  _ how’s it going?  _ Unfuckingbeleivable.”

K winces, “Proko, jeez, look. I’m just―this is hard for me too, y’know?”   
Proko’s eyes are comically wide and K thinks he might have said the wrong thing. “Hard for you too? Hard?  _ You  _ made it hard for  _ me _ . I tried, K, God, I tried to be there for you and you kept pushing me away. You treated my like shit, like your fucking toy and it’s hard for you? I gave you everything and you made me feel like nothing and then you go and fucking leave and act like I’m this fucking pest you can bat away. Jesus K, I loved you! And all I wanted was for you to at least like me back! And then you go and get yourself fucking overdosed and don’t speak to me for, like, ever―”

K breaks in, exploding with something urgent and swelling, “What the fuck?  _ You  _ didn’t want to talk to  _ me.  _ I was giving you space! And as for me treating you like shit? Yeah, yeah I fucking did because I felt like shit and I’m sorry okay? I’m so fucking sorry that I’m a useless piece of shit and I didn’t make you feel like enough.”   
Prokopenko scoffs, his eyes rolling in an exact mimicry of Ronan Lynch. “That’s a bunch of bullshit. Fine. Play victim. I don’t care anymore.” He says this in a voice that betrays that he does care a whole lot. He’s wounded and the tug of tears can be heard in the thick swell of his voice. It makes Kavinsky hurt.

“God fuck, Proko. I love you okay? I. Love. You. And I’m sorry that I scared you with that but I was fucking scared too? Okay? I’ve never―it’s never...been like this before okay? Nobody's ever made me feel good like you do. And I love you so much and it scares me because this is how it’ll always be. I’ll hurt you and make you feel like shit and you can remember that I love you but it won’t be enough because I’m not  _ meant  _ for this. I’m really fucking trying here and I admit, I wasn’t before because I didn’t even begin to consider that you actually really cared about me. Everything for me has always been a dream-thing and you are so wonderful so I thought I dreamt you, okay? And, a-and it’s always just been me, I thought I didn’t have room for something else I’d only end up fucking over. I guess I was right.” Kavinsky is gasping and he thinks this is the most he’s ever felt in his life.    
Proko is quiet, doesn’t say anything; not with his eyes or his mouth. 

Kavinsky knows when Proko’s done listening to excuses, seen it a million times before so he  leaves the room, his heart a pounding bass drum in his chest. (he thinks maybe he just screwed everything up and he so when he returns to the party he shuts off the music and tells everyone to fuck off).

 

_ … _

 

Proko can’t breathe because holy shit he’s holding Kavinsky’s heart in his hands. The broken, tormented boy just gave Proko a glimpse of his soul, raw and unfinished around the edges, a little frayed from dreaming and drugs, but it was still beautiful. He wants to go after K but he has no breath left in his body to say anything. (he goes to sleep with a million thoughts lit like fireflies in his head and when he wakes joseph kavinsky is scrawled under his eyelids so he picks himself up, finds the oxygen inside him restored and braves the storm).

 

_ … _

 

There’s a dip in the bed, slow and deliberate and K feels the familiar weight of Proko at his back. He doesn’t dare to move, afraid to say or do the wrong thing so he evens out his breathing and pretends like he has not been lying awake for hours, replaying the words he had hurled at Proko. The boy runs a fingertip over the length of K’s spine, there are tears clinging to his lashes and K can feel it when Proko lenas in, nuzzles into the nape of K’s neck and...starts to cry. 

 

_ … _

 

K freezes underneath him, perfectly still and perfectly quiet. Proko didn’t mean to cry but he’s so overwhelmed and Kavinsky’s bed, Kavinsky's skin, is an all too familiar comfort. K turns over slowly, the expression on his face almost funny with how alarmed he looks. His lips are pulled in a tender frown, like Proko’s tears are weights curling the edges down. “Proko.” He murmurs, reaching for Prokopenko with shaking palms. He collapses into the cage of K’s arms, a shiver dragging down his spine, a sob catching on the raw muscles of his throat. K makes soft soothing sounds, runs a hand through Proko’s hands and whispers, “It’s okay” over and over again until Proko is repeating it like a mantra in his head. Proko takes a deep, grounding breath and pulls away, wiping his face. “Sorry.” His voice is tired and broken and K sits up immediately. 

“No, I’m sorry. About earlier. I was trying to explain myself and I know I did it all wrong.” He pulls Proko’s hand to his and curls his fingers over Proko’s like he’s a lifeline of some sort. Prokpenko looks at Kavinsky, really looks at him, and sees his reflection. Kavinsky, untouchable, unbreakable, unlovable Kavinsky is just as scared and vulnerable as the rest of the world. The weight of his pain and self-hate is now evident in the low slope of his shoulders, the tense tightening of his jaw and the storm hidden by the cool, glassy facade he had always kept up. Proko surprises both of them by bursting into laughter. “Look at us. Fucking look at us, K. If only Dick Gansey and his dog could see us now.” The idea is funny and K begins to laugh too. “We’re both such fucking idiots.” Proko continued. “Jesus Christ, I can’t even believe how ridiculous this is. Look at me! And look at you! Joseph motherfucking Kavinsky is apologizing.” It’s not even funny but K laughs harder, hysteria edging along the boys’ combined cackling. Proko is the first to sober up, a more serious expression taking over. “Kavinsky. I love you. And I know you love me too. I should have never pushed you for anything.”   
K smirks ruefully, “I shouldn’t have needed pushing, Proko. Can we...can we start over?”   
Proko blinks, innocent and lovely in the moonlight casting warm shadows on his tired cheekbones. He breaks into a dazzling grin. “I would love to”

 

 

_ … _

 

Sweat slicks the boys’ skin together, a heady kind of intimacy curling the strands of Proko’s hair as K shifts against him. Proko whines, low in his throat, as K’s lips slide tantalizingly along his. Proko swallows Kavinsky’s murmur of reassurance with his tongue pressed against the roof of K’s mouth. K parts his mouth and pants, Proko inhaling his exhales and it’s all so connected Kavinsky feels like he could die. 

Proko grips Kavinsky’s shoulder and K splays his hand out along Proko’s thigh, the heavy and warm weight of his palm making Proko ache with need. “Please, I need―” He breaks off with a sharp hiccup as K leans down and swallows entire length whole. His mouth his warm and like a haven around Proko, he can’t keep still. “K, God! Enough!” He nearly shouts when Kavinsky presses his tongue against the head and hallows his cheeks with a practiced skill. Proko has never been one to last long, and with this new shared feeling swelling inside of Proko’s ribcage he knows he won’t last longer than a couple of seconds. Thankfully, K pulls off, looking thoroughly flushed. “What do you want, baby?” His voice scratches like the gravel he races on and Proko shivers with possibility.    
“You. Inside. Please. Want you to make a home in me.” The words are cheesy and ridiculous and Proko looks humiliated but they succeed in invoking a sharp twitch of K’s hips. Kavinsky rolls onto his back, his hands an anchor on Proko’s hips sliding down and cupping the other boy’s ass and pulling him till he sitting astride K’s hips. Proko looks glorious up there, bare and disheveled, almost an angel if not for the rouged smear of bruises on his lips and red slash of his mouth, wet and glinting. Proko narrows his eyes, feline and soft and shifts up against Kavinsky (if k trembles when proko swallows k’s cock with his tight heat nobody says anything).

 

_ … _

 

Proko is a fever lit, rainstormed, hurricaned mess of ohmyfuckinggod. Everything around him is a muffled sort of humming, his blood is in his ears, cheeks, and cock and Kavinsky is in him. It’s not as if it’s anything new, the two have fucked so many times and in so many positions this is basic for them. But the level of intimacy is like a brightly coppered penny, newly minted and flashing. Proko seats himself and rolls up and  _ oh _ . If Proko was seeing stars before, now he’s seeing an entire galaxy. Proko’s whine is drawn and high and he rolls his head back on his shoulders, feeling loose and free. Kavinsky’s hands grip his ass and spread his cheeks for better leverage before he’s sliding in and out of him, pressing deep in him to that spot that makes Proko wonder how thin the line is between dream and reality. “Baby.” Kavinsky grits out, he sounds almost like his old self but his voice is layered with something softer and fuller. He thrusts up sharply when Proko clenches around him and Proko can  _ feel him in his throat holy shit _ . It doesn’t last long, not like all the other times where they go three or four times and when they both stretch out, their souls somehow colored and visible in that moment (cheesy cheesy cheesy proko thinks but he’s too in love to care) Proko says, “Joseph. Joseph. Joseph”, until he’s fallen asleep with K’s name on his lips. 

 

_ … _

  
_ (kavinsky is unmade and in his place stands Joseph) _

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahahah i can't write sex ahahhahahahahahah :')))))))))))))))))) (crying thru the pain of my embarrassment).
> 
> As promised, a happy ending. If anyone wants a fourth installment of like domestic Prokovinsky let me know cause I'll be down.


End file.
